I Have No Voice and I Must Write by K.D. Rose

I love caustic writers. They write how I think except usually with more wit.

Just as important, and sometimes forgotten in bouts of unabashed sarcastic glee, behind the blunt force acerbic trauma, many of these writers actually give a damn about other people. Underneath seeming asshattery much gold is to be found.

I just don’t have that cred yet. Or maybe it’s balls. Okay, I literally don’t have balls, but what I mean is I don’t have anything to back up my opinions, and you know what they say about opinions…

I’m not sure how this devolved into genitalia.

The title to the post you’re reading of course is a play on words from the great Harlan Ellison, still one of the best in-your-face writers I can think of. Why did I write that last sentence? Because someone might not get the title. Is this really writing? Or do I just write and forget people who don’t get it; they can just take the writing at face value.

Delving deeply into anything requires codes no matter how one chooses to write about them. “Nous sommes tous américains — Le Monde.”[1] Each system has its own language, often meant to describe the very same principles or experiences as another system, though you’ll get a swat on the hand with a ruler if you say that out loud.

Codes are war.

War is prevalent.

Metaphors are codes.

Writers use metaphors. Live with it.

I contemplate my world in a non-linear way. Putting it all together to make sense to someone else is tough. It’s not even like puzzle pieces; it’s like an invisible puzzle that changes shape depending on the connections you make and the analytical lines you can draw among them, and then you have to draw it for others… And then finally you
have to:                 SPELL         OUT          THE          CONNECTIONS.
tornado1

becomes

tornado2

Was that a sentence?

(Doesn’t that tornado look friendly albeit slightly confused as to how it’s going to make sense of all the convoluted ideas it pulls in? Actually it looks pretty damn stressed out.) Freudian much?

When I can’t articulate the streams of what amounts to analytical dots (I was an analyst for the government), writing is scattered. If I do a great job a piece will arise so tightly connected that no one understands it.

skull

I guess I really am a Jackess of all trades. Ah, you gotta love homonyms.

If you like that last bit, you’d like my mind. You also might have visual acuity of the large picture in which we all play invisible soldier.

***

I wanted to write a blog post once titled: “When Sex Doesn’t Sell.” When you don’t use the words people have come to expect, when you don’t write to titillate but to translate, sex on the page can seem as obscure as Peter Higgs before March 2013. Insert supercollider sexual innuendo here. One day I’ll have to count and find out just how many poems I’ve written that are actually about orgasms.

Revel in the succinct. Not just succinct but dense. By dense I mean packing mountains of information or wisdom into forceful passages that stand like mountains in slim volumes of work. Why? Back to the difference in thinking habits. Long and drawn out is the linear norm. A takes us to Z through a series of stops along the way that build upon one another to the conclusion. Slim volumes on the other hand—poetry is a key example— build vertically, with ever expanding circles, tangents, and some linear thrown in. Dense.

Have you heard of Steganography? Steganography is derived from the Greek words “steganos” and “graphein,” meaning covered writing. Overlay and overlay of information. I liken dense works to steganography and other forms of covert communication, such as the ability to reduce a large amount of writing to a simple point like a dot. Dense works are not covert by intent; their innate structure simply reveals layers underneath. Rimbaud’s entire life’s work could probably be displayed in 50 pages. The Upanishads, a sacred Sanskrit instruction on the entirety of the universe is about 100 pages. The point is sometimes the most efficacious way to communicate complexity and remain effable is to ingrain mountains on each individual word. Terse. Succinct. Vigorous. Forceful.

There is a very slim book called Flatland. It contains and explains dimensional concepts beyond the satire. The book created a cult following. Check out the brilliance sometime.

 

How many angels can dance on the head of a pin? The answer is all of them.

 

***

 

I have anger now and good reason for it, but I don’t want to release the Kraken so it’s interesting to think of how others might experience that energy, tension, and release. There’s a lot of passion in anger. Or just jump underwater and experience the silence. Anger doesn’t exist underwater.

There are sharks though. They will eat you through and through without the slightest bit of rage.

I write generic articles in my “happy writer” voice. Somewhere along the way it became “the voice” everyone online uses. Non-offensive and perky, it makes me want to slit my wrists. On the advice of the rest of the world, we offer vocal seppuku. Enter happy writer voice; superficial blogger voice, and Prozac delirium advertising voice.

Writing like that makes me feel like a talk show host. I need to shower.

I can write kind of normal in a way that doesn’t suck my soul into an abyss of lost credibility. Yet, it’s not really me.

I have an authentic voice. I’m not an exclamation point type of gal. Nor am I a smiley face emoticon breach from Stepford psyche. My most recent book was a collection of three years of Tweets. If you drop twenty believing it’s not the authentic me you’d lose that bet. Communication, even deep understanding, can be conveyed within 140 character bits. Sonnet anyone?

I wrote a manuscript once that is the collection and curation of thirty years of work. Maybe one day I’ll break it down and sell pieces to Reader’s Digest.

***

Today I learned something worth remembering. I relate everything to quantum physics and watch over science like a hawk. Insert your own joke there to make it Hawk-ing. You’re welcome.
Anyway, they finally found the answer to a question that had been posed since the 1600’s: when two pendulums are hung next to each other, why do they end up swinging in opposing directions within 30 minutes? The answer is sound waves. If you think this meaningless or unrelated to other physics or even, say, Focault’s Pendulum, scrounge up that term on Wikipedia and watch how fast the science moves from Focault’s original pendulum theory in the 1800’s to Minkowski space-time. There’s a moment. Of immensity. Did you miss it? I hope not.

 

I made a Minkowski joke once.

Once.

Too much of that can get one labeled a screwball. In the meantime, I’ll let physics explain why there is a slight possibility that the chair you’re sitting in could turn into a mushroom at any given moment. Then, as a non-screwball type, you can explain to me why, as I’m writing this, Trump went from a liberal lambast to a presidential contender.

Hey, don’t get political, right?

I imagine it’s expected that I should be writing a pointed essay about dead people, war torn countries, or injustice.

Right?

I did.

Get it?

together

You must excuse me now. I have to go change to an MFA voice. It’s all the rage.

The trip we can’t afford is everyday life. It eats at our dead skin cells.

Pushing.

Pushing to go deeper.

“We are made of stars,” says Joni Mitchell.


[1] “We are all Americans.”

K. D. Rose is a poet and author. K. D.’s book, Inside Sorrow, won Readers Favorite Silver Medal for Poetry. She also won an Honorable Mention in the 2016 New Millennium Writings Poetry Contest. Her poetry, essays, and short stories have been published in Word Riot, Poetry Breakfast, BlazeVOX Journal, Candlelit Journal, The Voices Project and Strange Poetry. Publication is forthcoming in Stray Branch Magazine, Ink in Thirds, Literary Orphans, The 2016 Paragram Press Anthology, and The Nuclear Impact Anthology. Her latest release is Brevity of Twit. She has a B.S. in Psychology and a Master’s Degree in Social Work.